


Tighten the reins

by watchthequeenconquer



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alfie does, Blow Jobs, Choking, Come Marking, Coming Untouched, Dubious Consent, First Kiss, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Pre-Relationship, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sexual Violence, Sexuality Crisis, Slurs, Tommy doesn't know what he wants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24032308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchthequeenconquer/pseuds/watchthequeenconquer
Summary: Tommy controls people like he does horses; with a stern look and a commanding hand.Thought he could keep doing the same with his own desire, until he runs headlong into Alfie Solomons, who rides him hard and puts him away wet.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 14
Kudos: 171





	Tighten the reins

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was started not long after Season 2 originally aired and picked up again only recently.
> 
> Set somewhere between 2-3. Warnings for canon typical violence, racial slurs and some elements of dubious consent (mainly because Tommy isn't willing to verbalise his own desires).

Contrary to the nature of his dealings, Thomas Shelby thinks of himself as a conservative style of man. He isn’t prone to the unpredictable fits of aggression that overcome John or Arthur, unreliable outbursts of youthful impatience and overconfidence. Tommy conducts his business intelligently but coyly, pale blue eyes emitting an air of artful unaffectedness that never betrays the covert workings beneath. 

Above all, Tommy had always respected the boundaries between professional workings and pleasure, used them as the landmarks to check his own limitations. But something is shifting. His beloved Aunt Pol, ever-watchful and devastatingly sharp in the despairing way that only women can be, sniffs it out on him from a hundred paces. 

“Off on business? You’ve got the look of your father, Thomas. Be mindful.” Knowing eyes flashed scornfully and piteously, but Tommy had scoffed and slipped heedlessly from beneath the weight of her scrutiny, leaving her to her pointless commiserations. 

Pol believes it’s his ‘devilment’. He isn’t certain if it’s his family’s fortunes on the rise or the heady industrial fumes in the smoggy Camden air, but every trip to London challenges his sensibility- forcing him to chastise his racing pulse against the thrum of possibility.

“You alright, Ollie?” Tommy calls familiarly, strolling up the laneway to the tall young man standing between him and an early invitation into his next meeting.

“Y-yes, Mr. Shelby” Ollie stammers at the recognition as the older man lights up a cigarette, “You’re early…”

The faint coloring of the gatekeeper’s cheeks at the eye contact doesn’t go unnoticed. Tommy had made a career out of identifying the desires that motive all men and capitalizing on it to his advantage. With time on his hands and that unshakeable restlessness humming through him, toying with the low-hanging fruit is just too tantalizing. 

“So I am.” Tommy returns with faint amusement, moving closer to exhale a distracting cloud of smoke close to Ollie’s face, watching the poor boy desperately trying not to inhale. He languidly lowers his eyes, taking his measure before fixing him in the intense, pale web of his stare. 

“Mind if I wait inside?” 

“I-I, I don’t…” Ollie hesitates a second too long and that is all it takes, slowly rising panic setting in as the leader of the Peaky Blinders stamps out the light with finality. 

“E’ won’t mind.” Tommy’s flat tone is devoid of compromise as he gracefully sidesteps the poor sod into the underground distillery. He lacks the maliciousness required to maintain the façade, bored by the triviality and resigned to the fact that the small encounter has done nothing to quell the strange feeling of anticipation building within him. 

He’s only allowed a moment to adjust to the murky light when an explosion at the opposite end of the hallway interrupts the solitary echo of his footsteps. 

“Boy, if that’s some filthy wop about a bet again, I’ll rip your prick off and sodomise you with it!” 

“It’s far worse than that, I’m afraid.” Tommy responds easily as Alfie Solomons lumbers into view. His demeanor remains nonchalantly trained but his pulse jolts like a spooked horse. The response is quickly disregarded as a defensive instinct in the face of the professional liability standing before him. Tommy doesn’t have the time to dwell on the volatile nature of the man, only his necessity. 

“Oh Mr. Shelby, welcome, please do make yourself at home in the bowels of my establishment.” Solomons acknowledges flatly. A hand drags tryingly through his thick beard, regarding his business partner silently before his powerful arms fold and his thick neck snaps to his errant employee. 

Tommy notes, not for the first time, the plainness of his baker’s garb as his forearms flex in irritation, veiling the devastating capability underneath, filing it away for later scrutiny. 

“Gypsy king work his magic on you, mate?” Solomons growls savagely at the doorman, dark, intelligent eyes flickering in the failing light. 

Tommy remains silent while the exchange plays out. Despite his unaffected demeanor, he remains on guard as Solomons advanced on his hapless employee, mean expression at odds with his pontification. 

“Seeing as you stand before me wholly, not sliced to ribbons, I’m left to assume that to have taken leave of your general faculties, you, a son of Abraham, must be glamoured; bewitched by his unnaturally conjured charms, yeah?” 

“N-no, Mr. Solomons…he insisted.” Ollie stammers fretfully. 

“Well, now I fucking insist!” 

Tommy doesn’t flinch when Solomons rounds on him, closes the space between them with surprising speed, red flag planted firmly in his mind at the ease of the movement with no cane in sight. His breath catches as the foremost foot is planted between his legs, knocking the inside of his calf to force his legs to spread.

Commanding hands enter his jacket, raking down his sides as thin material shivers over his freshly battered ribs. The calloused strength in the firm sweep is undeniable, but the warmth orbiting his chilled skin, sides, back, stomach is even harder to ignore; weighted with authoritative press of the other man’s leg on his in-seam, anchoring him in place with the sheer bulk of his mass.

Arms splayed vulnerably, Tommy grits his teeth as Solomons painstakingly continues his search, painfully aware that his only weapon is tucked just out of reach in his back pocket. An involuntary flush of anger shoots down his spine when an unfortunate upsweep catches the blooming bruises in just the wrong way. 

“There’s a good fella, nearly done ay?” Solomons informs him with unbridled amusement, removing his anchoring foot and straightening his stance to dominate the small space between them. 

Tommy levels his gaze wordlessly, calmly letting the situation run its course as the other man studies him with the leisurely interest of the previously informed. 

“But what with your penchant for offing your colleagues, can’t be too careful, can we?” 

Just when the inquisition seemed all but done, Alfie Solomons shifts his dirty white apron and crouches to his knees.

“What did I tell you, Ollie? Attention to detail.” 

The forgotten Ollie chokes on an exclamation nearby as Tommy stares dead ahead, focusing on tamping down his rising annoyance, hands dropping defiantly into his pockets. 

The treatment begins around his ankle with a theatrical pat but the trail past his knee drags to a pace that is nowhere near comical. He can feel the heat of Solomons’ palms seeping through the cotton, the pressure in the subtle bite of his fingers kneading the muscles in his legs during the deliberately slow climb.

Tommy blinks hard as his frustration bleeds into rising discomfort. Solomons’ hands hover just shy of his inner thigh, hands he has seen been put to devastating use, before drawing to trace an identical path on the opposite leg, torturously slow. 

“Hmm…fine tailoring…wonderful quality – from Birmingham?” Solomons inquires, practically humming, stopping momentarily to pinch the thin material with his forefinger and thumb, displaying none of the aggression that had seized him only moments earlier. 

“Aye.” Tommy breathes out shortly. 

Solomons may as well be picking at the seams of his stomach lining. Tommy tries not to focus on the newly exposed sensations the single sided contact is beginning to inspire. Save that for sleepless, opium laced evenings and the hard affection of paid companion.  
His eyes roll skyward, seeking salvation for his restraint, before dropping a controlled look directly downward. 

“If you’re satisfied, can we move on.” It’s not a question, his tone measured but thin. 

“All about business with you, eh?” Solomons nods solemnly, pausing for a long moment before releasing his hold as if it had never mattered. 

Tommy doesn’t respond, motionless, gaze impassive as Solomons gets to his feet slowly, nonetheless imposing, and begins to move toward his office. 

Taking this queue to follow further into the depths of the building, Tommy blinks hard, unable to shake the oppressive, heady warmth seeping its way into the edges of his skull, hands balled into clammy fists in his pockets, resisting the reactionary reach for his cap that the sensation inspires. 

By their usual standards, this encounter has been unpredictably par for course, but the usual thrill of navigating the complex dealings has left him feeling off balance. 

“Will it be rum then?” Solomons turns sharply as they step through the threshold of his office, blocking the usual path to his undisclosed supply of firearms and whiskey. The muscle coiling in the shift of his impossibly broad shoulders only adds weight to the question. 

“Didn’t realize we were having fun already.” Tommy responds calmly, heart racing as he quickly assessing the concealed hard line of Solomons’ mouth, the distance to the door and the stark absence of any Jewish minders. 

Shit. 

“Didn’t answer my question, lad.” Solomons growls, anchoring his fists into Tommy’s shirt before slamming him unceremoniously back into the wall, “Shall we drink to you eye-fucking my impressionable young ward?”

The blow almost takes Tommy’s breath away, but he acts instinctually, finding purchase around the outsides of the upturned wrists. The right amount of pressure could do some damage, but Solomons’ huge frame isn’t giving him any chance to regain ground, every inch pressed against his prone body. 

“I didn’t come here to drink.” Tommy coughs, refusing to break Solomons’ predatory gaze, unhinged in its intensity. He rails against the urge to struggle, kick, spit, suddenly overwhelmed by the sensory overload- the scratch of beard against his skin, the rise and fall of the bull-like chest boxing in his own. 

It’s those enormous hands pinning him to the wall effortlessly, suspending him helplessly, like he has come from nothing and will never amount to anything again, that does him in.  
Well, fuck. 

“Action over intent, mate.” Solomons hisses dismissively, tobacco stained breath caressing his captive’s face. There is a pause and the other man draws back a fraction with a contemplative look of wonderment on his face, pupils enlarging in response to the undeniable feel of his guest’s half-hardened cock against his hip bone. 

Tommy shuts his eyes briefly, allowing the unshakeable calm that has always cloaked him in a crisis to settle before turning his cold pale gaze outward, shameless in his unexpected vulnerability. 

“Don’t tell me you’re not thirsting, Tommy.” Solomons breathes, the hint of a smirk on his lips, interrogating the blank canvas before him for the slightest break in composition, “You’re fucking parched.” 

The savageness remains in his grip, steadfast in the surety that only comes in being a step ahead of your opponent, but there is a fascinated lightness in Solomons’ tone that disrupts the previous intensity. 

Tommy licks his lips subconsciously, weighing up the odds as Solomons’ eyes predatorily trace the movement. 

“Alright. Only if it’s the white, Alfie.” 

“You what?” Confusion loosens the vice hold and Tommy seizes the momentary fissure in judgement. 

“If I wanted a worker, I’d have the brown.” 

Solomons studies his face intently for an unblinking eternity, muttering an unspoken understanding to himself before relinquishing his hold as if the entire exchange was a customary part of their regular transactions. 

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Alfie admonishes, moving smoothly behind his desk and rummaging through his drawers. His large hands move without hesitancy, smoothly producing two crystal glasses and a bottle. 

Tommy remains silently by the wall. His stance is rigid and he’s unable to relax the agitated tightness in his jaw. His voice remains detached, a distant cry from his body screaming at him to remove itself from this confusing situation. 

“Next shipment is Wednesday as planned? I’ll make sure my men are available” 

Sharp brown eyes return to Tommy, darkened with the intimate knowledge of a hand yet to be played. 

“Off so soon? But there are intimate details to be discussed…” Alfie’s timber becomes even richer than the dark liquor swirling in the glass in his hand, the teasing note not lost. 

“If anything changes, you know where to reach me.” Tommy inclines his head formally, unable to suppress the desire to escape the underground complex any longer as he smoothly replaces his cap. 

He tells himself it’s his post-war aversion to unaerated enclosures as he turns on his heel and exits, leaving the proffered glass beside his business associate. 

“Oh, believe you me, I won’t forget, Mr. Shelby.” Alfie’s bemused voice follows him through the dark passage way, an opened-ended promise that regardless of Tommy’s preference, this line of discussion is far from over. 

*

Despite her profession, Lizzie Stark hasn’t made a habit out of taking callers past sundown. Her mother had always warned her that a woman’s work should turn indoors after dark. Nothing but trouble to be had otherwise. Though her career was nothing her dear departed mum would’ve been proud of, she’s always tried to heed her advice. 

So when the lack of response does nothing to hinder the insistent rapping on her front door, Lizzie answers cautiously with her compact pistol in hand. 

“Tommy, is that you?” She asks, shift slipping off one shoulder as she gives a surprised start and lowers the barrel. 

The muted response to the firearm pointed toward his face should have been all the reassurance Lizzie needed. But the disheveled, unsettled man before her more closely resembled one of her Garrison regulars than Thomas Shelby. 

“May I come in?” His voice is wrecked behind the request, pupils wandering black holes in the clear sky of his eyes. She’s seen him high many times before, but rarely this worked-up, cap fisted with white knuckled coldness in his closed hand as he moves restlessly in the cool night air. 

“Yes, but Tommy, it’s the middle of the night!” Lizzie acquiesces, warm eyes beacons of concern as she moves to let him inside. 

“Lizzie, I can’t- please, Lizzie…” 

“Are you alright, love?” 

The familiar endearment slips in as she runs an errant hand through the shavings in his hair, massaging into the grooves as he leans in to the shelter her body provides. 

The unintentional contact is all the permission he needs and her soft gasp is the pardon. His hands are an indecent blur, nightgown pooling invitingly around her hips as he hikes her legs around his waist and makes hasty work of his trousers. 

She’s blessedly pliant as he takes her in the hallway without chivalry or ceremony. Opening easily, the breathy moans and her legs tight around his waist tether him in place while his consciousness drifts. 

His sharp hips beat her back into the wall with savage urgency, bruising forcefully as their bodies collide. He remains silent bar his harsh breathing, her pained cries only interrupted when his mindless fingers replace her own on her clit, skittering brokenly over the wet nub as she bucks wantonly into him. 

Her hair is too soft against his cheek and her breaths in his ear too delicate. Catching the linger scent of the London smog on his coat collar has Tommy coming quickly with a feral growl. He continues to pump his hips through it, dimly aware that Lizzie is finding her release, barely present as he steadies her shivering form. 

“Christ in church on a Sunday!” Lizzie breathes finally, bracing herself against the wall as he dislodges himself. “What’s gotten into you, Tommy? I haven’t seen you in weeks, then you appear in the dark like the devil himself!” 

She is sated but still insistent as he brusquely fixes his pants and his hat. His unusually distant manner, rare for a man obsessed with control in all things, betrays the underlying conflict twisting within him. 

“Leave it, Lizzie.” Tommy warns without his usual bite as he fishes for a cigarette. He offhandedly offers her cash that she rejects with a casual wave, too intent on studying him, pale eyes masked behind the smoke cloud.

“Polly told me about that blonde girl from The Garrison leaving,” Lizzie pressed, biting her lip sympathetically as her arms covered herself against the chill, unable to keep the frustration from her voice, “No way to treat you after you gave her a start. She’s no good, Tommy.”

“Women rarely are…” Tommy murmurs without feeling, before adding with barely perceptible warmth, ‘with a few brilliant exceptions.” 

He presses the remainder of the cigarette into her cooling fingertips. She accepts gratefully, the closest gesture to gratitude he can muster. 

“Pardon the intrusion. Be sure to lock the door.” 

He passes out into the night without waiting for her response. 

Lizzie tightens her shift around her shoulders, shivering as she watches his shadowy figure retreat into the smoke beginning to seep from the industrial works. She wonders if there could be anything more dangerous loosed on the streets than a Shelby set adrift. 

*

Contained chaos is customary in Tommy’s line of professional dealings. Empires were not built without aggressive expansion, power plays executed with an unavoidable element of calculated risk. His preferred method of negotiation often necessitates the implementation of the scrappy, bloody crisis management he has always thrived upon. 

The encounter in Solomons’ office presents an operational hazard that is entirely outside of Tommy’s repertoire. Their business has proceeded without issue, but the undefined nature of the exchange has left Tommy on edge. 

“Does it have to be today, Tommy?” John wines when his older brother stalks him into a corner of the office with a non-negotiable request, “It’s not like London is going anywhere!” 

“It needs to be today, John,” Tommy deadpans, pinching the bridge of his nose in open exasperation, “I need someone I can trust to ensure the transaction is completed.” 

“But The Garrison…” John protests, folding his arms with a weak stubbornness that Tommy has always been able to bend to his will. His full lips are pursed, just shy of a pout that in the old days would’ve had Tommy suppressing a beaming smirk. 

“With any luck will be standing when you return.” Tommy finishes for him, brokering no room for argument as John sighs dramatically. He collects the car keys and stands by with waning patience as John begins collecting his array of misplaced belongings. 

“Of course I miss out on the party…you’ll save me some cocaine, won’t you, Arthur?” John calls hopefully over his shoulder with a charming wink as the eldest Shelby brother enters. 

“One day you’ll have all these responsibilities for yourself and you’ll understand. Business doesn’t wait for booze and blow, John.” Tommy responds shortly, leaning heavily on the back of a chair and raking his free hand through his dark crop of hair impatiently. His family’s general lack of urgency shouldn’t surprise him even at this stage of their development, but it still manages to irritate him to no end. 

Arthur settles beside him, unable to suppress a snort as John gestures comically to himself, the height of maturity, before putting his coat on inside out. 

“Responsibility? I’ll take your budding empire and raise you a wife and a basket of squalling pups.” John shoots back cheekily, before adding with a lascivious wiggle of his fine eyebrows, “Spend more than one night with a Lee woman and you would understand the order of my priorities!”

“The booze and blow has to come before you can!” Arthur chortles, moustache chasing his rough laughter, looking to Tommy expectantly before snapping, “Get a move on with ya, John boy!” 

Tommy shakes his head despairingly, smiling thinly as Arthur pegs a poorly aimed newspaper in the general direction of John’s head to speed him along. John navigates the obstacle easily, before straightening to eye Tommy quizzically. His perennial toothpick twists between his lips as he chews thoughtfully, as is his habit before opening his mouth when he shouldn’t. 

“Speaking of partnerships, did you and Solomons have some kind of falling out?” John blurts out, sticking his hands defiantly in his pockets. 

Tommy feels the tick in his jaw return immediately. His face is expressionless, but the spike of irritation must flash dangerously in his eyes as John quickly trips over his words in his haste to make amends. 

“It’s just, it’s been a while since you’ve been to London and…ooff!” 

John is too busy verbally backtracking to avoid walking straight into Arthur’s blow when he clips him smartly in the side of the head. The force of the knock sends John stumbling before Tommy can even hazard a response. 

“If you could drive half as fast as you talk, you’d be back by now!” Arthur barks, herding his bewildered brother towards the door, “Give Solomons our regards and nothing more!” 

“Anything else you’d like me to pass on, Tommy?” John calls over Arthur’s shoulders with a smirk as he is manhandled outside. 

“No dawdling, no drink and no FUCKING DETOURS!” The explosion from behind them makes Arthur wince at the impact and the playful smirk fall from John’s face into his lap as Arthur releases him in the street. 

“He needs to get his end wet in something other than Lizzie, cause it’s obviously not doing it for him!” John says, straightening his cap viciously and stabbing his finger towards the door emphatically. The bluster and hurt does little to conceal the genuine concern in his words.

Arthur nodded shortly, wordlessly sharing the sentiment. He isn’t sure if it was the golden girl departing or the rapid expansion of their interests, but Tommy was noticeably more highly strung lately. Despite his best efforts to conceal it, the family had noticed the change.

“Now, now, mind your brother and don’t speak about Lizzie like that.” Arthur chided light, caterpillar brows furrowing together as he considered how he was going to deal with the mess, “I’ll handle Tommy. Now piss off!” 

Arthur pats John’s face fondly before wrenching his ear in the direction of the car for good measure in an affectionate farewell. 

“I’ll save you some snow.” Arthur calls at the passing car, unable to help but add when John’s face lights up like a Christmas tree, “Can’t promise your missus won’t be into it before you get back!” 

He cackles until John’s middle finger protruding from the car window rolls out of sight, before hustling back inside. Arthur finds Tommy worrying at the depleted end of his cigarette, arm locked straight on the back of the chair in front of him.

“Sorry about him, Tommy” Arthurs apologizes unnecessarily, rubbing his hands together as he surveys his younger brother’s face, “He just don’t know when to keep his bullshit to himself sometimes.” 

“It’s fine, Arthur.” Tommy replies shortly, but the sharp drag on his already whittled away cigarette is proof of the bristling irritation underneath. 

His fingers clench and unclench, biting into the hard wood, pain keeping him level after the unintentional snap. It was rare for him to lash out at member of his family, so while the outburst was uncalled for, the message would be heeded. 

Tommy is aware he has an above average knack for managing people – “You mean manipulating to your will?” Aunt Pol would scoff –and the various moving parts that comprise their business. He completes his role seamlessly without complaint, so the expectation is that this will continue to operate without fault is high. But between balancing deals and dealing with internal defiance, Tommy is beginning to feel stretch things

“You alright, Tom?” Arthur asks again as Tommy finishes his cigarette. The shadows under his striking blues eyes bear down heavily on his face. His cheekbones protrude ever so slightly more sharply as Tommy grinds his jaw subconsciously before raising his head. 

“Why wouldn’t I be, Arthur?” Tommy returns with a hard smile that nowhere near reaches his impassive, cold eyes as he slaps his brother firmly on the shoulder, “It’s time to celebrate our good fortune. We have a party to throw.” 

*

“Tommy, you’re needed outside!” 

Tommy sighs heavily, inhaling the quiet solitude of his study, unable to shake the tension in his shoulders at the calling thrum of people and pounding music waiting beyond the door.  
“Thomas!” 

The Garrison is brimming with a potent mix of Shelbys, Lees and other assorted employees toasting. The air is thick with raucous laughter, shattered glass shimmering like cracked diamonds amongst his feet as Tommy moves through the crowd. 

“Hail to the King!” One of the Lees crows, broken teeth a gnarled mess as he salutes Tommy with a drunken bow, falling sloppily into a nearby relative. Tommy’s forced smile in return feels just as broken. 

“A crown would suit you, Tommy.” Esme purrs as she slinks into his space, huge brown eyes flashing at him invitingly, using the momentum of the crowd to sway close to his chest, “We just need to find you a Queen.” 

Her liquid eyes turn venomous as he wrenches chin up forcefully to meet his deadly stare. 

“You tell your uncles there’ll be no gambling tonight, Esme.” Tommy hisses in irritation, pinning her with his icy gaze until she stops thrashing, mouth agape, “Keep the fucking peace or there’ll be no gold for anyone, do you hear me?” 

He isn’t aware of Arthur beside him until he’s wrenching his arm free and loosing Esme back into the throng, a wild animal gracelessly slipping a trap. His eyes follow her path distrustfully even as Arthur drags him away. 

“The Lees are under control, Tommy. The police on our pay roll are out patrolling the streets. If Sabini wants to dance in the full moon tonight, he’s going to have a fucking party on his hands!” 

Arthur leads Tommy towards the bar, slapping someone on the back, yelling at the bystanders as he passes through, pinching the ass of one of the local girls. The rowdy press of the crowd only drains Tommy, wound tight and ready to react to the slightest push as provocation. 

Ignoring Arthur’s intoxicated assurances, Tommy slips behind the bar wordlessly, busying his hands by serving the few guests who aren’t nursing entire bottles of liquor to themselves. 

“Let’s just try and get through the night without any fucking surprises, ay?” 

Arthur is about to respond but loses the words as Tommy slams the generous portion of whiskey he has just poured himself down his throat. Barely pausing for breath, he repeats the motion with a second shot. 

“It’s a party, Arthur. Try smiling.” Tommy says irritatedly, teeth bared as he grabs Arthur’s head with both hands, unable to stand his brother’s expression, creased in concern. 

“Take it easy with the drink, ay brother?” 

Tommy embraces the burn of the alcohol in his chest, surveying his pub. Lizzie and Polly are dancing their tits off, spilling drinks with the carelessness of those that have newly made their way in the world. The Lees are hunched together conspiratorially in a corner, Esme no doubt off scoring in one form or another. The newly refurbished golden surfaces reflect the establishments’ debauchery, mirroring writhing forms and animated conversation. 

The pull of his newly established power is counteracted by the constant threat of dethronement. The balance is as tenuous as a tightrope walk, and Tommy has never felt more unstable.

“You’ve got a guest, Tom!” Johnny Dogs calls from the doorway, gesturing urgently. 

Shaking his head, Tommy pours himself another generous glass, necking it quickly before slamming it down too hard on the wooden surface top. As if the weight of the crown isn’t heavy enough, does he have to do everything around here? 

“I’ll come with ya…” Arthur offers, before Tommy brushes past him roughly with a strong palm in his chest, heading towards the door. 

“Stay.” He grunts coldly, shouldering his way through the revelers. 

The street is blessedly quietly in comparison to the bawdiness barely contained with the tavern’s gilded walls. Perfumed with a heavy industrial smog, the air is still invigoratingly refreshing, a welcome respite from the din inside, the noise polluting his slightly swimming head. 

Pulling a cigarette from his jacket, he lights it before surveying the street; empty except for a lone car parked further up the street. 

Drawing back his shoulders with a weary sigh, Tommy fixes his cap down over his eyes and strides purposefully towards the vehicle. 

“Unless you’re on the Peaky Blinders payroll, I’d suggest you move along.” He says curtly to the barely cracked window, ashing his cigarette on the ground without properly bothering to focus on the driver. 

“Fuck off.” 

The affronted reply is so unexpected in is brazenness that it takes Tommy a second to register. The windows is already half way rolled down when it hits him unexpected in the chest, a lung full of smoke gone down the wrong way. 

“Wasn’t expecting you this evening, Alfie.” He said by way of greeting, raising his eyes calmly as he attempts to recover himself.  
“Course you didn’t!” Solomons huffs through his noise, still feigning indignance. His gold ringed fingers tap the steering wheel, betraying his amusement. 

Attempting to get his thoughts in order and quiet his suddenly kicking pulse, convinced the nerves are from the surprising visit alone, Tommy focuses on his fingers. Tattooed and thick, shockingly capable, running down his sides, fisting his collar…

“…you reckon that bankrolling at least half of this shit hole of a town through your continued operations would have been enough to warrant a cordial invite to this little soiree…” 

He pauses, amid what Tommy can only assume can be a length diatribe that he’s missed as he attempts to mentally regroup. A number of patrons spilling out onto the street, brawling and puking as they go, interrupt the comfortable silence between them. 

“Didn’t think you’d make the trip.” Tommy deflects easily, mind racing. 

“And yet here I am, a mere interloper traipsing into your kingdom of caravans, unannounced,” Alfie replies, dark eyes betraying nothing. 

His nose twitches distastefully, like a dog smelling something rotten. Tommy hums noncommittally, willing his face to remain neutral. 

“Do I bow before the Prince of Birmingham, or is there some other ancient, ceremonial custom that I must adhere to before we conduct ourselves?” Alfie continues, clearly enjoying himself despite his hardened exterior. Behind them, the flames of industry briefly light up the smoggy early evening sky, temporarily warming the Jewish gang leader’s otherwise black eyes.

Tommy is outwardly as still as a statue, coldly composed. His insides are a seething mass of reactivity, irritation, anger and something more sinister. The delicate skin on the inside of his lapels begins to itch, like it sometimes does when he’s craving a hit of his pipe after a hard day, but it isn’t opiates he wants and he’s drunk more than enough. 

“The pro-offering of a goat or some other form of cattle for a ritual sacrifice? No?” Alfie guesses playfully, interpreting his silence as leeway to continue his cruel game, “A virgin English woman to be passed amongst your brothers, half-bred cousins, maybe?” 

Tommy doesn’t blink, barely draws in breath, surveying Solomons as detachedly as he can. 

“What’s wrong mate? You seem a bit like our last meeting…little bit…rigid, if you will.” Solomons drawls lazily, running his hands through his beard as though deep in contemplation. 

Fuck. 

Despite his best efforts to conceal it, Tommy’s nostrils flare indelicately as he inhales. The minutest movement can be the biggest tell, and Solomons hasn’t missed it.

“So, it’s not the coffers or the court that demands tribute, it’s the king.” He philosophizes, the barest glimpse of his small white teeth flashing from behind the bush of his facial hair, “Right. Well, that’s easy then, innit? Left my gold bars at home, so maybe you’d like me to get down on my knees, swear my fealty? Or perhaps its baser than that?” 

“Insult me inside over a drink, eh?” Tommy interrupts finally, clearing his throat loudly. The conversational cease fire is a poor cover for the impact that the other man’s words have had on him. The unbidden imagery winds its snaking tendrils into the lowered resistance of his consciousness. 

Solomons on his knees before him, powerful shoulder slumped in prostration. He tells himself it’s the thrill of power running through him, shaking his head to dislodge the mirage. He swallows hard as the beginnings of arousal hum ominously at the base of his spine. 

He’s far too drunk, must be half way to completely out of his mind with overexertion and sleep deprivation to be entertaining these kinds of thoughts about a deranged psychopath who could destroy his entirely livelihood, ruin any chance of his family’s prosperity. 

“Not a fucking chance.” Solomons continues, drumming his fingers impatiently on the wheel, oblivious of the inner turmoil of the man outside as he stares intently at the establishment. 

“That bar there, right, has basically been built off my prosperity, and I make a point of never sampling my own wares.” He jabs a finger at it in emphasis, before re-sharpening his focus, “Besides, discussing our business in that den of inequity, teeming with heathens and thieves, hardly bodes well for the continued propriety of our relations, don’t it?” 

“I make a point of not talking shop in the street.” Tommy objects flatly, shoving his hands stubbornly into his pockets. He’s secretly relieved that the discussion has moved to more familiar territory. 

“Great minds.” Alfie nods sagely, before reaching over with a grunt to fling the passenger door open, “In you pop, then; there’s a good lad.”

Tommy stays where he is, glancing back up the road. The logical remnants of his sound mind are screaming against the temptation. He feels for his gun sitting securely in his coat, mindful of the knife strapped to his ankle. 

“You’re not going to frisk me again?” Tommy asks, unable to help himself, as he removes and lights another cigarette, stalling as he mulls it over. 

“Oh, come of it, you fucking loved that little power play!” Alfie’s bark of laughter resounds too loudly off the dirty walls of the terraces lining the street, disarmingly wild and almost as affectionate, “You’re not sore on that still, are you? Nice little touch of intimidation, that was. Could hardly let you just saunter in off the street untouched after seducing my employee, could I?” 

Tommy cocks an eyebrow in quiet amusement.

“Didn’t even bring my handler with me, did I? Gave em’ the slip, that’s how concerned with self-preservation I am.” He raises a hand to solemnly cover his barrel chest, “I swear not to lay a hand on you until we are out of earshot of your intermixed family, colleagues.”

“As enticing as the prospect of being verbally or physical brutalized out of sight of my hired protection is, what’s in it for me?” Tommy enquiries, blowing out the words between drags of his cigarette. He’s not sure if it’s the easiness of Solomons’ banter or the booze, but the flirtation of professional and personal is going down far too smoothly. 

“A chance to escape this ungodly din for a quiet chat?” Solomons chuckles, gravelly voice, “Between conspirators, you look like you could use the break.” 

Humming considerately while the slighter man remains silent, deciding of his own volition that further inducement was required, the Jewish gangster reaches into the passenger seat before dangling a bottle out the window. 

“Did you bring you a little gift to sweeten you up after all, proverbial olive branch as it were.” 

A street lamp flickers, catching on the liquid glistening in the clear bottle. 

Tommy can tell without even uncorking the bottle that it’s rum. 

Exhaling slightly too hard, he weighs up his options. He’s beginning to sober up, feeling the dull beginnings of a headache throbbing in his temple. A raucous roar explodes from The Garrison like shell fire, almost making him start as he tries to find maintain his composure, find a second of silence amidst the chaos to consider. 

There will be patrons to evict and coppers to pay off, the cellar will need restock and any damage done will need to be repaired overnight. A car pulls up out the front and he smiles dryly to himself as John races inside, hooting and hollering as he enters the fray. His extended relations are no doubt fucking or fighting or both, and he’ll no doubt need to mitigate the damage.

But they haven’t noticed his disappearance yet. The combination of the cool evening air, the gentle lull that the booze and the easy conversation have dulled his senses like nothing else has in weeks. Though engaging with this man should be bearing down on him with the entire weight of his responsibilities, his inner devilment is baying for blood, daring him to take a risk that isn’t calculated within an inch of reason. 

He takes the bottle wordlessly from Solomons, before walking around to step into the truly handsome vehicle. 

Solomons’ serious façade is broken momentarily as he gazes upon his passenger with a look of sudden wonderment. 

“As if the hellfire and brimstone spewing from this truly Godforsaken place weren’t omen enough! This truly must be the end of days.” He guffaws, smacking the wheel in his mirth. 

The space is almost more intimate than Tommy can stand. He breathes in hard (freshly upholstered leather, chewing tobacco and some sort of incense) before taking a swig of the proffered rum. 

This action doesn’t entirely conceal his quick visual sweeping of the mirrors, but it does soften the bluntness of his distrust. The back seat is empty for all appearances, aside from his trusted cane. If there’s a tail, they are parked out of sight. 

“Fucking unheard of. Tommy fucking Shelby, letting another man take the wheel.” Solomons muses aloud. 

“Just drive, eh?” 

*

They drive out of town in silence before veering in the direction of the countryside. 

Solomons drives the vehicle and the conversation, undeterred by his passenger’s stilted replies. At times he gesticulates so wildly during his rambling storytelling about various unrelated subjects that they veer dangerously out of their lane and back again.

“If you were as engaged with driving as you are with talking, we’d be there by now.” Tommy observes, the drinking making his tongue loose and more than a little clever. 

“Cheeky bastard! That’s the most you’ve said. Maybe if you extended yourself beyond your monosyllabic replies, I wouldn’t have to resort to sending us into a ditch and untimely deaths for want of a bit of liveliness!” Solomons retorts. 

The bulging muscles in his forearms bulge as he yanks the wheel off course as if to prove his point. 

Tommy remains still as the wheels connect with gravel and grass, spitting debris against the windows. 

“Steady on, would hate to waste a drop of this swill you call alcohol on your neatly pressed upholstery.” 

“There’s he is! There’s that smart mouth that is going to ensure you’re offed well before your time.” Solomons crows, straightening their course, “Only took a minor brush with death, but you don’t get out of bed for any less, do ya?” 

Tommy drinks and says nothing, glances at the fading vestiges of civilization, dying out like a low burning ember in the distance. 

Solomons scoffs. 

“And you expect me to focus on the road, when such engrossing banter beckons? Your wit is nearly as sharp of those cheekbones, mate, but your delivery would benefit from consistency. Silence is golden, but unless used sparingly, it just makes you look stupid. Lucky you’ve got a pretty face to hold everyone over, hey?” 

“Pull over.” Tommy directs shortly, taking another drag from the bottle. 

Swerving abruptly off the dirt road, leaving an incriminating trail of dust in their wake, the car crunches to a halt beside a sprawling paddock. 

Tommy drops the bottle unceremoniously, removing himself from the vehicle before the engine has even been switched off. His stride remains firm as he walks over to lean on a nearby fence, though his pulse is racing.

He curses himself as he clumsily removes a cigarette, grateful that the larger man hasn’t caught up yet. What the hell is he doing out here, alone with the most unpredictable man he has ever met? 

“I always thought the countryside was a bit fucking overrated myself.” Solomons calls from behind him, ambling over at a leisurely pace, no doubt taking in his surrounding as he goes, “Few trees. Cows. Any half way descent fuck hasn’t tubbed in weeks. What do you see in it, exactly?” 

Tommy takes a drag, collecting himself as he leans over the wooden railing. Solomons, who never met a pause he wasn’t comfortable filling himself, continues quizzically. 

“This where you come to light your bonfires, pitch your fucking tents in a circle before making merry for your heathen gods, convene with wayward spirits in search of divinity?”  
Solomons interrupts his own quizzical espousing, grimacing offensively at the cigarette Tommy is sucking within an inch of its existence.

“The filthy streets of Birmingham or industrious Camden Town not enough for you, eh? You come out here to taint the fresh air with your unending supply of cancer sticks?” 

“This is where I come to check on one of my investments.” Tommy murmurs. 

“You what?” Solomons squints in the poor light, failing to understand. 

Tommy points at the striking black gelding situated some metres away in the center of the field. It lifts its head to acknowledge their presence, snorting dismissively at the interruption before returning to feast on the plentiful grass beneath its white-socked hooves. 

“Got another year on him before he’s sent to train for the track.” 

“While I consider myself a sporting man like any other red-blooded male and enjoy the professional spoils of that particular choice of recreational frivolity undoubtedly, that I cannot understand.” Solomons surmises. He comes to lean heavily on the fence, resting his chin on his bare forearms as he considers the sight before him. 

“That’s why running the game from the outside is your specialization. Running it from the inside is mine.” Tommy retorts, more than a little bite in his tone though his cold blue eyes are still focused firmly forward.

Has he always been this smart with Solomons, or is the drink combined with his lack of self-preservation helping him on his way? He can’t remember the last time he conversed this freely with a business associate. 

It dawns on him far too late and he only just manages to keep his face straight. Is he flirting with Solomons? 

“Settle down sweetheart, not questioning the way you run you’re shop, alright?” Solomons drawls, raising his hands in mock surrender, “More of a personal preference when it comes to animals, isn’t it. You have some sort of affinity for these creatures, I take it?” 

Tommy blinks, taking a second too long to respond. His mouth parts almost surprise. He shuts it quickly when he takes note of Solomons’ gaze dropping to take in his lips before refocusing on his response with his usual madly unfocused intensity. 

“You could say that.” 

“More of a dog man, I am,” Solomons shares, glancing back out at the horse, narrowing his eyes in consideration, before staring at Tommy as if determined to figure out his inner workings. 

“Dogs, I understand. They’re low maintenance and their patterns are mostly predictable, you see. Feed them, walk em, don’t chain them up, discipline them when necessary and they’re yours forever. Don’t bite the hand that feeds them, unless fairly provoked. Loyal, to the point of stupidity sometimes.” 

“Those things,” He points, stabbing a finger while not taking his eyes away from Tommy’s face, “while ethereally beautiful and deceptively powerful in their composition, aren’t worth the pounds you pay for ‘em, what with their underlying temperaments.” 

“No?” Tommy asks with an air of disinterest, just to distract himself from the intensity of Solomons’ scrutinization. 

“Like to change on a whim, as suddenly as a southerly breeze, aren’t they?” The bearded man hums, unashamedly taking in the view before him as he philosophizes, “Too quiet for their own good, so you’ve got no indication of their ever-shifting mood. When they do decide what they are, their either easily provoked to flight at the sight of their own shadow or stubborn enough to think themselves better than every other living thing!”

“Conditioning accounts for that, same as with a mutt. Order reigning in chaos.” Tommy replies evenly, unwilling to be swayed, “You break in a stallion the same way that you would a stray, with a firm hand and a bit of patience.” 

“But they’re never really broken, are they?” Solomons disagrees, “You can harness them, whip them, teach em’ how to trot in a circle or jump or kneel. But that will of theirs, that unbreakable certainty of their own superiority, is still locked away in their big, stupid head, ain’t it? Nah, they’d still buck a rider the first chance they get, they will.” 

Tommy remains silent, not wanting to go on but not willing to concede either. He has a feeling that this conversation has long since moved past its initial subject. 

“’Sides,” Solomons breaks first, expression grave, “could just break one of those spindly excuses for legs, then what good are they, ay?”

“The same could be argued for a three-legged dog.” Tommy says coldly, “Can’t rat or protect its owner, just makes a lot of noise and shits where it sleeps.” 

“Is that so?”

“Only one thing for it. Bullet between the eyes.” 

“Savage, absolutely fucking savage, that is!” Solomons admonishes, but his throaty laughter carries across the quiet field, “Got ourselves a stone-cold killer here, ladies and gents. Woe betide the ignorant sod who entrusts one of these fair, stupid sods into your care!” 

“No point in being sentimental about it.” Tommy finishes his cigarette, stubbing it beneath the toe of his boot with finality, “I’ve put down every horse I’ve ever stabled, since I was a boy.” 

“So, you’re not a bad hand with them I take it. You’ve mounted one of those fickle beasts before?” Solomons enquiries, eyes wide and enormous hands clasped before him innocently. The suggestive lilt at the end of the sentence indicates that the question is anything less than. 

“Are you asking if I know how to ride?” Tommy replies, cocking an eyebrow as he lights another cigarette, just for something to do with his hands. 

“No mate, I’m asking if you’ve sodomized one of God’s most baffling creations. Get your mind of out the gutter, ya drunken lout. Course that’s what I’m fucking asking!” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you do it often?” 

“As a business man yourself, you can appreciate that I struggle to find the time amongst my many responsibilities.” Tommy replies formally, doing his best to steer away from the conversational grey area. He’s a match for Solomons’ mind games with his full faculties intact, but intoxicated by the booze and the clean night air, he’s wary that his head is cloudy and his guard is lowered. 

“Hmm. And do you prefer boys or girls?” 

Tommy chokes on his just inhaled breathe. 

“Excuse me?” He coughs. 

“For riding, that is.” Solomons’ smirks dangerously. 

“I…” Tommy pauses, “…need to piss.” 

Solomons’ laughter dogs his path as he practically stumbles in his haste to exit, heading for a nearby tree. 

“Cut the shit, Alfie. You didn’t drive through the night to discuss my leisurely preferences.” Tommy calls over his shoulder, facing the tree as he feigns relieving himself. 

All this back and forth, toying with him, personal then professional and back again so fast it’s making his head spin. What does Solomons want with him? He must be absolutely out of his fucking mind to have come out in the middle of nowhere, in the dead of night, with this known psychopath. 

His restless spirit sings as his heart hammers. 

Too consumed with his thoughts to notice the failed reply, Tommy slips his hand inside his coat pocket to reach for his gun. He barely gets to brush his fingertips against the weapon, with ever intent on turning and demanding to know what Solomons wants from him, when the man himself knocks him headfirst into the tree. 

“Easy there, pet. You wouldn’t be looking to turn our friendly little chat into a more serious altercation, now would you?” 

Tommy remains quiet, struggling to catch his breath with the wind knocked out of him. He can feel Solomons’ hot breath against his ear, his bull-like chest pushed into his back. 

A chill runs through him, set off by a sudden breeze, and he shivers involuntarily. 

“Use that talented tongue of yours, boy.” Solomons urges, encouragingly, wrenching Tommy’s arm behind his back, securing his hold. 

He doesn’t flinch when cold steel is pressed against his neck, biting in the skin. 

“Just trying to figure out why you came all this way.” Tommy sighs, signaling his resignation, slowly moving to plant his hands compliantly flat on the trunk, “Business or pleasure?” 

“Bit of both.” Alfie concedes, pressing the gun harder into his neck, “Haven’t seen you in Camden Town for some time, have I?” 

“I’ve been busy.” Tommy replies, tone measured. 

A cool sweat breaks out over his forehead, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he begins to calculate his options. He’s drunk, but not stupid enough to think that he’ll be able to throw Solomons’ sizeable bulk off his slight frame, that he’d be able to reach his boot faster than a finger on a trigger. 

He has no choice but to play along, or that’s what he tells himself, as death waves her enchanting fingers at him. 

“So I hear, expanding your little empire. Too busy to oversee your own shipments? Sending your little brother to do your dirty work?” Alfie continues his monologue as he presses into him, transparently outlaying his intent, the villain in an old picture, “That does not bode well for our partnership indeed, does it. Am I no longer a significant enough piece of your portfolio to warrant your undivided attention?” 

Tommy inhales sharply, mortified as his body starts to involuntarily respond to the situation, to the oppressive heat transferring from Solomons’ front pressed into his back. He’s grateful for the coverage that the tree is affording when he feels his cock shape against his slacks, thighs tensing for fight or flight. 

Regrettably, Solomons mistakes his silence for insolence. 

“See I wanted to fix this the proper way, with words, but we have other means of persuasion at our disposal in our line of work, don’t we?” He grumbles, “Seeing as you’ve so kindly indicated that you’re outfitted for a firefight, I will be forcibly insisting on that search of your person now.”

Tommy grits his teeth as he feels the larger man’s hands invade the sides of his coat, plucking his gun from its concealment. He sucks in a breath sharply when Solomons takes his time, painstakingly running his rough hands over the smooth finish of his waistcoat, before wrapping around to sweep his torso. 

The material of his white cotton shirt rustles as Solomons explores the covered panes of his upper and lower back, shoving him forward again into the tree for good measure before dropping to his knees with a loud grunt. Plucks the gun from his pocket, dropping it to the ground and kicking it out of reach. 

“Move and I’ll break off a piece of you to take home as a souvenir, yeah?”

“Alright.” Tommy groans, hoping that the noise will be construed as pain. His entire being is betraying him, so pathetically touch starved for a little bit of roughness. Even after being smashed against the tree, his cock continues to firm traitorously in his too tight pants. 

“Knife, left boot.” He supplies, praying that it speeds the process along. He’d rather Solomons kill him now than discover his current predicament, held hostage by his body’s own twisted desires, entirely at odds with his head, the fractured remains of his still beating heart. 

“Good boy, that’s more like it.” Solomons praises, but doesn’t move to hasten his ministrations. The warmth of his hands is a perversely welcome respite from the thin mist of fog permeating the night air. 

Starting by removing the knife, the fingers of the opposite hand patiently trail up his leg. Tommy flinches when he feels the gentle drag of the knife catch his momentarily exposed skin of his calf; awareness heightened as the sharp tip loosely tracing a lazy path up before being dropped to the ground. 

Just when Tommy didn’t think it was possible to feel more exposed, the hands continue their ascent past his knees before wrapping around to caress his thighs. 

“Careful with the merchandise there.” Tommy hisses as Solomons winds his way further up to bracket his hips, patting him down for a holster that isn’t fastened there.  
“Alright, put him down, he’s only a little one.” Solomons mumbles to himself, as though Ollie were there to be instructed, “Turn around then, that’s a good lad.” 

Breathing hard through his nose, Tommy acquiesces. 

The light from a nearby farmhouse does nothing to conceal his affected response to the proceedings. 

Solomons’ devious eyes flick down in interest before settling on his face. 

“Out with it, then. You’ve been leading me on since you walked into my bakery a year ago, with your bloody nose all out of joint and balls so big you could barely swagger straight. Let’s have at it.” 

“Fuck you.” Tommy spits in his face.

“Shame, that. You picked the wrong man to play around with. I am not the one. Bit of the rough stuff then, so be it.” 

For his insolence or perhaps just for his own enjoyment, Solomons pistol whips Tommy with the barrel of the gun, before jamming the flat side into his exposed throat. A dribble of blood trickles from the side of his mouth, but he remains venomously poised. 

“Let me put this in terms that you might understand. Are you in bed with someone else?” 

Tommy shakes his head once. His vision blurs, the lines between their professional dealings and whatever else lies underneath going hazy with it, but it’s all the confirmation he’s going to give. 

“So why aren’t we fucking, then?” Alfie is right up in his face now, forehead creased, maddening eyes unblinking as he stares into Tommy’s. They’re so close that he can see the warm puff of his breath in the frigid evening air, the crooked little teeth hidden behind obscenely plump lips. 

Responding to aggression the only way he knows how, Tommy lunges forward, latching onto the too full lower lip and bites down till he can taste copper. 

“Fucking animal!” Solomons reels back with a howl, spitting blood himself now. The act only seems to spur him on, the unmistakable sound of his belt buckle unfastening signaling his clear intent. 

Bloody and dazed, Tommy surges forward clumsily, still off balance from the blow to the head. Despite his best attempts to utilize the space to strike, the movement is too wild to find its target. Solomons rushes up to meet him, telegraphing the wide swing with a shoulder barge that sends Tommy stumbling back into the tree, winded but not out on his feet. 

“Ho ho, we’ve got a live one here!” Solomons crows as Tommy heaves for breath, “Why is everything a bloody battle with you? Settle the fuck down.” 

With one arm securely in his grasp, Solomons spins the slighter man around, slamming his face first into the tree. He yanks his arm painfully high up his back before securing the other; the knotted belt swiftly binding the clenched fists together. 

“You’ve lost mate, no shame in it, war’s done. Give over for once, eh?” 

Tommy slams his eyes shut as he waits for what comes next, breathing hard and feeling the bite of the bark against his skin as he feels his own pants being undone, his underclothes torn down to his ankles. The nozzle of the gun is soothing when it finds the back of his head, a small comfort that hopefully it will all be over soon. 

He writhes impatiently, as if he could slide out of his own too clammy skin if he tried hard enough, exposed to the evening air, to Solomons’ burning gaze. Tries to escape the enticing grasp of his fist when he reaches around to mercilessly squeeze his fully formed erection, so desperate for contact that it spurts with pre-come at the too rough touch. 

“Had a feeling for all your feistiness that you’d be a quiet one when it came down to it. Any last words, final requests?” 

“Get it done, then.” 

“Have it your way.” 

Tommy braces himself for the squeeze of the trigger, the explosion of pain before the broken pieces of his head go silent once and for all. 

He’s not prepared for the rush of cool air as his back is released, followed by a loud grunt and a thud. Almost moves off, jumps when he feels cold, calloused hands on his bare arse cheeks. Unwittingly clenches when he feels them roughly pulled apart. 

Another throaty noise from behind him, guttural, appraising. Tommy remains still before losing the ability to breath entirely when he feels the wet tip of an inquisitive tongue lapping insistently at his bared entrance. 

Tommy hisses involuntarily, physically biting back a groan of shock as Solomons buries his face without hesitation into his back side. 

The thick dark swathe of beard scrapes deliciously against the sensitive skin, providing a torturous friction that borders on painful. His thick tongue delves past the tight ring of muscle boldly, sliding inside the untouched length of his internal passage as though it were made for the taking, seasoned rather than completely inexperienced in this form of intimacy. Waits until it has buried itself up to the root, allowing for the accommodating stretch. 

Above him, Tommy swears in spite of his avowal to remain silent. His entire frame is trembling. His knees nearly give in on themselves when Solomons begins to move inside of him, so overwhelming is the sensation of it all. He must feel the brief collapse of his musculature, powerful hands forcing his thighs wider, spreading them wantonly. 

Tommy press his own cheek harder into the bark of the tree, desperately needing its grounding bite as he briefly imagines the picture they would make if anyone were to discover them. His cock jumps traitorously at the filthiness of it all, spurting slick onto the wood beneath it. 

The motion is gentle only for a second, concentrated swirls that quickly turn into a frenzied lather that has Tommy scrabbling for purchase. His bound hands pinned beneath him knock uselessly against the tree trunk, before his short nails bite into his own skin for bloody respite. 

Tommy hisses when Solomons slowly pulls off, his abused hole clenching at nothing but air. 

Solomons stills for a second, hums as he observes his handy work quietly. Clears his throat, hoicking up its contents before spitting directly into his crack, admiring the sheen of the spit as it dribbles down the pale curve. 

“If you’re going to finish me, there’s no need to drag it out.” Tommy manages, tongue stumbling over itself as he pants obviously, “Bullet will do.” 

Solomons growls before yanking his cheeks further apart, stretching the skin painfully for better access before continuing his assault. 

Tommy grinds his cheek into the tree as his back arches of its own volition, both into and away from the overwhelming contact. The burning friction is beginning to become too much, rubbing his skin raw. In spite of the pain, his own shameful self-loathing, he can feel his orgasm building with dangerous intensity, singeing his nerves from the tips of his clawing toes to the short black hairs at the back of his neck. 

He’d rather die than spend on a tree, in the middle of nowhere, without even having his cock touched; bending to the will of a man who has threatened more than once to end him permanently. 

Solomons chuckles and Tommy can feel the reverberation inside of him as he pulls off again, torturously slow. 

“And deprive the world of all these glorious orifices, the ones that make noise and the ones that don’t?” Alfie chides, “Reckon I’ll enjoy this for a little while longer.”  
Tommy chokes back a strangled moan when Solomons re-enters the well lubricated entry way with his pinkie, pulling on the delicate skin and watching it snap back in satisfaction. 

“There you go, let it out.”

He adds another finger, pushing it in so far that Tommy can feel the edge of his gold ring brushing up against his hole. Flushes from the neck down when he realizes the only sounds filling the night air is the obscene squelching of his own wetness and his breathy, bitten off cries. 

“I’ll make you a deal.” Solomons offers after a rare moment of voiceless reflection, “Shape those lips, molded in the likeness of every man’s oratory fantasies, right; that have only ever uttered obscenities, curses and condemnations on the lives of the unworthy. Use them to tell me, yeah, how transcendentally, earth shatteringly good this feels, and I’ll stop using mine? Fair?” 

“You’re clever, but if your mouth were as talented, you wouldn’t need to ask.” Tommy grits out, praising the pale moonlight for concealing the warmth colouring his face. 

“Fucking cheek of you!” Solomons grins, unaffected. He begins brutally scissoring his slick fingers, using his free hand to distractedly knead Tommy’s flanks appreciatively, “I should leave you…what’s the saying you horse people use… ridden hard and put away wet.” 

He twists his fingers emphatically, and Tommy cries out loud, unable to stifle his shout as he stabs savagely into the spot that flicks a switch inside of him, sending tremors of electricity up his spine and turning his shakes into near convulsions. 

“That’s more like it. Opening up so beautifully, so fucking tight; I might lose a finger in there,” Solomons rambles. His gravelly voice only serves to enhance his commentary as he slowly breaks the man above him open, thick with lust, “When was the last time someone took care of you, eh?” 

A third finger, continuing to work him at a brutal pace has Tommy’s eyes rolling back in his head as he feels himself stretch even further open.  
“That’s it, sweetheart.” Solomons coos encouragingly. 

He hangs his head in shame as his body complies with the sweet words, against his own will, sweat dripping from his brow, legs spreading further to accommodate the fullness, balls aching as they draw up towards the centre of his mass. 

“Please.” Tommy manages, voice cracking in his desperation. Plausible deniability prevents him from being able to speak further, to beg for release, whether climaxing or escape from this hell. 

To his own horror, he’s chasing the movement before he can stop himself, rolling his hips back as he fucks himself onto the fingers picking him apart at the seams, tearing him apart from the inside out.

Solomons grunts appraisingly, before ducking his head back down to squeeze his tongue back in amongst the fray of his industrious digits. 

The pressure is almost more than Tommy can bear. He can practically hear his gaping hole devouring the additional appendage, expanding to accept the newest intruder. The space is so tight that he can feel his own filth leaking out of him, catching in Solomons’ beard where he continues to ravage his abused entrance with reckless abandon.

His orgasm hits him unexpectedly, surprising and devastating, the last mouthful of whiskey that sends you from agreeable to belligerent, the final toke of smoke that carries you from blissed out to strung out. 

Shuddering helplessly, the force of it nearly bends him in half. Ropes of come stripe the tree bark, white reels standing out starkly against the dark wood. Solomons, being the mercenary bastard that he is, drives him ceaselessly through the peak and the aftershocks. 

Bracing against the tree that is preventing him from collapsing into his own come, Tommy attempts to control his breathing, still his frantically beating heart. He’s just committed an unforgivable sin in their wicked and wonderful world; lost control, exposed his delicate underbelly, pink and vulnerable. Weakness. 

Convinced that his face is under control, he coughs dryly before he speaks. 

“If you don’t finish me off here and now, I swear…” Tommy begins, unable to meet the other man’s eyes yet even as he threatens. He’s interrupted by a boom of laughter behind him. Sleeping birds take flight from the tree above him, so explosive is the sound in the otherwise still landscape. 

“Correct me if I am wrong, but ain’t that what I just fucking did?” Solomons enquires, tone thick with mirth. 

Tommy twists, snaps his head around to glare at the man behind him, but forgets how to breathe while processing the sight that awaits. 

Solomons is standing, legs akimbo. His beard is still glistening with slick as he lips his lips, catching the remnants in his moustache. His muscular forearms clench as he squeezes, one hand balled into a fist onto his impressive thighs, as though restraining himself. The other is lazily tending to his enormous cock. 

“Am I wrong?” Solomons repeats as Tommy blinks at him uncomprehendingly, clicking his jaw and sighing with satisfaction as it creaks, “Reckon I’ve got lock jaw and a fractured phalange or two that say otherwise, but if that was a false start, I’m more than happy to go again.” 

When Tommy doesn’t reply, Solomons frowns. 

“What’s the matter? Never seen a circumcised prick before? Just like yours, without the little cap on its head.” 

Shaking his head to clear it, Tommy clears his throat before making his point clear. 

“If you breathe a word of this to anyone…” 

“Fucking hell, it is true. Nothing left in our heads once our balls are empty, hey?” Solomons interrupts again with a snort, twisting his grip, “For someone so intelligent, you can be really fucking thick, anyone ever told you that?” 

“…I’ll blow your brains out.” Tommy finishes finally. 

“I wish you would, but that might take some working up to with your delicate constitution.” Solomons returns with a grunt that could be irritation or satisfaction as he continues to fuck into his own fist. 

“Get fucked.” 

“Trying, dear.” 

Tommy reaches down with the pretense of grabbing his under clothes, grasping desperately for the knife only inches out of his grasp, only to be pressed back up against the tree. 

“Did you think we were finished here?” Solomons sneers; the distinctive sound of clothes rustling behind him signaling his intent. 

“Thought you were going to offer me a post coital cigarette, maybe a bit of a cuddle under the stars.” Tommy replies flatly, flinching when Solomons buries the flat of his tongue into the sensitive shell of his ear. 

“If that’s what you want, you only have to say, mate. With all the pony talk, I assumed this would all be a front, that you’d be a little bit soft.” 

Tommy blindly slams his head backwards, connecting with a satisfying crunch with Solomons’ nose. It’s not broken, but the litany of curses it inspires shows that it served its purpose. 

“You’re going to regret that.” Solomons promises, tone tinged with disappointment. He spins Tommy around before slapping him so hard his entire head snaps to the side, face going instantaneously numb.

“Was going to take you here, up against the tree, where you could close your eyes and hide under the cover of darkness, pretend I was forcing you into it, that you didn’t want it when I make you come again.” He explains as he grabs Tommy by the shoulder, dragging him stumbling over to a nearby tree stump. 

He roughly unbuttons Tommy’s shirt with his hands as he reels, impatiently tearing the buttons as he rips it off his shoulders before punching him so hard in the stomach that it forces him to his knees. 

The remnants of his shirt are laid down on the tree stump as Solomons sits heavily, kicking off his shoes and shoving his own pants down his powerful thighs. His monstrosity of an erection juts impressively, angry and red, just like it’s owner. 

In spite of his injuries, Tommy shudders and unconsciously licks his lips. Solomons doesn’t miss the cue, reaching down and surprising the man beneath him by roughly smashing their lips together, all spit and teeth and hunger, predatorily devouring. 

When he pulls away, Tommy is panting, pupils blown with desire even as his mouth twists painfully in disgust at himself. 

“Bloody hell, what a tortured existence you must lead. You have no idea how to conduct yourself like a rational, consenting, full formed human exploring his depraved pleasure,” Solomons states rather than asks, slapping his hands on his own thighs, “The war really did a number on you, didn’t it? Or maybe it was that Irish barmaid who betrayed your operation then gave you slip a few months back, hmm?” 

Tommy’s mouth gapes as Solomons closes the distance between them again, gentler this time. His tongue delves into the awaiting opening, gently exploring the unchartered territory as rough hands gentle cup his jaw. 

“Fear not. Your stunted inability to admit your desire won’t stop me getting my end away, darling. If I tear you apart in the process, consider it an unfortunate casualty in our clandestine dealings.” 

“Watch that mouth of yours, I might fall in love with you if you keep talking to me like that.” Tommy smirks dryly. 

“If you were as effortless as you strive to appear, this would be a whole lot easier, Tommy.” Solomons returns, almost too fondly, before the sentiment fades from his expression, replaced with a malicious hardness. 

He grabs Tommy by the longer part of his shock of black hair, dragging him forward on his knees onto his cock. 

“Consider your performance here carefully. It will dictate the rest of the proceedings.”

Licking his cracked lips, Tommy answers by swallowing down the other man’s length in one overly ambition gulp. 

“Fuck me!” Solomons shouts above him, bare thighs seizing involuntarily under Tommy’s flatly plated hands. 

He works his way down determinedly, ignoring the tears burning his vision as he hollows his cheeks, laving the thick vein underneath with his tongue. He’s never done this before, but he knows he himself likes when a woman goes down on him and attempts to emulate it. Above him, Solomons is whining gently, quiet, rough sounds that have his spent cock beginning to show interest in the proceedings, however masochistic. 

After several strung-out minutes of attention, the fat head cockhead slipping into the tight column of his throat. Solomons’ hands wind into his hair with a possessive growl, unable to contain himself any longer, holding him down as his hips drive upwards. 

Tommy attempts to relax his throat, breathing through his nose, but it’s the spit collecting in his mouth undoes him. He chokes when Solomons rears back to bury himself into the welcoming confines, the movement forcing the backed-up juices into his wind pipe. 

Solomons cruelly holds him down, moaning with abandon as Tommy gags around him. He releases his hair before shoving him off, gasping for air and gagging.

“Steady on; couldn’t tell if you were trying to kill me or yourself there, but what a way to go!” Solomons whistles with a grin, continuing to stroke himself as Tommy catches his breath.

“Never do things by halves.” Tommy’s voice is a wreck, sounding like he’s spent hours on his knees rather than mere minutes. 

“Got it nice and wet. Smart boy.” Solomons slaps his thighs invitingly, “Up you pop.” He winds his fist back into Tommy’s hair and pulls, rag dolling him to his feet. 

It could be the pain from his accumulated injuries or the surety that this will end with a round of lead being emptied into his skull, but something switches inside Tommy. He closes his eyes as it washes over him, breathing in deep as his head goes blessedly silent; no shovels tapping against the edges, ready to break through, the calm in the trenches before artillery fire would rain down up him. 

“Was going to fuck you over this tree stump, take you like a bitch in heat, but since you’ve been such a good slut, I’m going to let you set the pace.” Solomons continues. 

He slides two fingers inside Tommy without ceremony, working his own slick back inside his own entrance.

It takes Tommy a moment to register that the broken, desperate sounds he can hear are his own. 

“You still with me, mate?” 

Tommy opens his mouth to speak, instead releasing a high-pitched moan when Solomons mercilessly adds in a third finger. Shuts it again, head dropping in shame, not trusting himself before nodding. 

“Found the sweet spot, I see. That’s how it’s meant to be, when you give over to it.” Solomons nods, understanding, “Bittersweet, like having your jugular slit. Everything aches, but you can take it because it will all be over soon.” 

“Are you going to fuck me or just talk me to death?” Tommy replies, but there’s not enough venom in it. His voice sounds far away even to his own ears. 

Solomons slaps him again, making sure his ringed hand clips him in the mouth this time. 

“The only pathetic dregs of humanity that I allow to speak to me in such a manner are paid for the privilege,” Solomons snaps irritated, “Seeing as you asked so rudely, let’s hope for your sake that you can take a cock better than you can suck one.” 

With one calloused hand, he grabs Tommy’s hip hard enough to bruise, positioning him over his lap. With the other hand, he lines his cock up with weeping hole. 

Solomons snorts in surprise when Tommy takes over obstinately, batting his hand away and replacing it with his own with a sharp squeeze. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, stomach taut in preparation, Tommy begins to force the head none to gently up against his entrance. 

His thighs shake with the effort as he feels the inevitable blunt force of his cockhead catching on the sensitive lip before entering, stretching him impossibly open. Without pause, he begins to sink down the length, gritting his teeth. 

Not sure what to do with his bound hands, he loops his forearms around Solomons’ neck for balance. The intensity of Solomons’ gaze burns through his closed eyelids, his awestruck gasp not escaping his ears. 

“Fucking hell, Tommy...tear yourself apart like that…” He groans, breath wheezing out of his lungs like he’s been punched. His huge hands settle on Tommy’s hips, anchoring during his endless descent. 

He doesn’t begin to feel it, the devastating burn, until he bottoms out, forehead hot, the backs of his thighs sweat slicked. Everything aches acutely as his body welcomes this formidable foreign entity.

“Shit.” He curses, flicking his hair out of his face as he forces his heavy lids open. Much as he wants them closed, he can’t trust the man currently cleaving him in half not to attempt to wound him more mortally in the process. 

“You won’t, it’ll pass.” Solomons laughs, patting his hip almost fondly. 

Despite his easy manner, he is clearly affected and most startling of all, seemingly doing his best to allow Tommy to adjust. His thick eyebrows are knit together in frustration, plump lips parted, huge chest rising and falling with the labour. 

He grunts as if sharing the other man’s discomfort, cautiously shifting his weight from one leg to the other before settling back to stationary. Despite his care, Tommy winces, the slightest jolt sending a fresh fissure of shock through his system. The black pupils of his eyes engorge in response; the dull, vague pain morphing into the barest hint of pleasure. 

“Sorry, sweetie.” Solomons apologies, unbearably soft as Tommy rolls with the movement, “My back ain’t the steel rod that it used to be. Take your time.” 

Unable to think about it for a second longer for fear of completely losing it completely, Tommy plants his feet on the dew-soaked earth beneath them and begins to move. 

The motion is awkward at first as the sensation, unnatural and clumsy, like a colt taking its first uncertain steps. The intoxication helps with his confidence, but being on top like this, being so exposed and out in the open, is by far the most erotic thing he’s ever experienced. 

He begins to find a rhythm, dragging himself up before letting his bodyweight slam him back down. His thighs clench around those tensed beneath him; holding his weight as he lifts himself before the drop. His forearms push off Solomons’ broad shoulders, using them as leverage when he shakily rises. 

His own arousal hits him sharply, when the pain bleeds away at the edges, leaving only blurry, warming desire. 

“Oh, fuck.” Tommy gasps, slowing as he really begins to feel it, surprised at the himself. The battle for supremacy warring in his chest must show on his face; desperatate to remain in control as his body demands he relinquish his stranglehold on its autonomy. 

“There you go.” Solomons appraises with a grunt, white knuckled fingers digging with bruising strength into the soft skin of Tommy’s hips. 

“Bet it’s a like getting on top of one of them big, power things that could fling you off at any second, ay? You don’t really get to the joy of it until you lose yourself in it, get your footing and trust it’s knowing what it’s doing.”

It takes him a second to gather himself under the sheer weight of it; the seismic force of overpowering desire ripples through his nerves, reverberating devastatingly through his anatomy. 

He’s sickened by how gone he is on it, the absurd fullness, the oppressive intensity of the pressure; fancies if he was game enough to press his hand to his twitching belly, that he could feel Solomons’ there, bloating him with his sheer enormity. 

His arms, still wound loosely around Solomons’ neck, are shaking, helplessly. His nipples are hard enough to cut glass, dusky peaks that the slightest breeze only serves to sharpen. 

His cock is fully formed again, laying heavily against Solomons’ still clothed abdomen; the rough cotton of his shirt providing a maddening friction that is nowhere enough. The head is dribbling openly, staining the shirt, and Tommy wonders faintly if he should offer to dry clean it after, if the man doesn’t bury him here where they sit. 

“Loosen your grip there, give it it’s head.” 

“Do you ever shut up?” Tommy retorts obstinately, even as he slowly begins to move in slow, uncertain circles. 

“Nah, not really, thought you knew that much about me by now,” Solomons smirks, “I could ask you the same, seeing as your still running your pretty little mouth, “Sides, reckon you like it; you haven’t told me to stop yet.” 

He plants his feet hard into the ground and bucks up once, roughly with a powerful thrust. Tommy nearly falls out of his lap with the force of it, head spinning as he’s jostling, inner walls contracting as he buries himself up to the hilt. 

“Not seeing much horsemanship here, thought you pikeys were meant to be naturals.” Solomons snorts dismissively, pounding into Tommy again before stilling, “Makes sense though, pretty boy like you. Bet you’ve never had to work for a descent fuck a day in your life; just lay there and take it, doped up to the eyeballs, eh?” 

“Fuck you.” Tommy bristles indignantly, gritting his teeth as he grinds down hard, unable to hide the blush that spreads attractively down his chest. 

“No shame in it, though I might kill you after all, just to spare any other peasant who falls in your path the sheer boredom of such a spiritless root!” Solomons chortles to himself, “Just kidding around, eh? You’re only learning. Maybe you just need a little more incentive…” 

He wraps his fist around Tommy’s cock. The too rough stroke reanimates his entire frame, making him seize with pleasure. Shooting upright with the motion, the physical jolt impales him on Solomons’ cock, burying it in the sensitive gland that sends a thrill of sensation running up his spine. 

Back bowing beautifully under tension, Tommy raggedly intensifies his pace, mindlessly driving himself as he chases his completion. He begins to bounce messily, wildly clenching around the pulsing length as he buries it deep inside his sheath, over and over. 

His entrance gapes and constricts hungrily, slick pouring from its loosened confines, the air is squelches out noisily with every descent. The overworked muscles in his legs are screaming with fatigue. The slap of skin on skin, his buttocks slamming into Solomon’s pelvis, drives him ceaselessly onwards as the pressure begins to build again behind his eyes, twisting in his clenching abdomen. 

“Attaboy, that’s more like it!” Solomons roars, finally coming to his aid as Tommy’s endurance begins minutes later. 

Powerful hands wrap around the pale waist to assist with the labour, gripping firmly before lifting him effortlessly and slamming him down onto his pulsing member. 

Tommy keens helplessly when, after an eternity of carrying the load alone, Solomons finally picks up his end. He begins to fuck up into him at a brutal pace, all devastating force and no finesse. 

“No wonder you warned our men off Jewish women.” Tommy pants helplessly, biting back his own cries of need, “Must spend a lot of time in prayer. They’d never reach the Holy Land with technique like that.” 

“Unlike you gypo bastards, our women know how to shut their mouths and take what’s given to them,” Solomons grunts between thrusts. 

Tommy opens his mouth to reply and is silenced when Solomons slams him down emphatically, landing right on the spot inside of him that makes him see stars. 

Seeing Tommy’s mouth fly open in a silent gasp as his orgasm begins to crest, Solomons shoves him down ruthlessly with one meaty hand on his shoulder, pinning him in place as his body begin to quiver violently in anticipation.

“You nearly there?” Solomons asks. As before when he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, he traps Tommy in the painstakingly slow vortex of his whirlpooling rhythm.  
Tommy shakes his head, the last shreds of his self-control beginning to slip from his grip. His hands are still bound around Solomons’ neck, so he’s stranded on the precipice of his release; unable to touch himself or hide himself from the heated gaze that is tearing through the dark veil of his soul. 

“Needy little thing, aren’t you?” Solomons coos, “Lucky I’m such a gentleman. Let me give you a hand, there.” 

Tommy flinches, a whine escaping him as he prepares for the calloused grip to brutalize his weeping, bloodied mess of a prick. Gasps instead when the hand wraps itself around his windpipe and begins to squeeze. 

“The use of reasonable force has never been my strong point,” Solomons explains as Tommy fights against the hold, “Let’s hope for your sake of your trachea that I get this one right, eh?” 

13 seconds to kill a man if the hold is applied wrong. Tommy does his best to avoid his own cold logic, divert panic and instead leans into the bruising touch. 

There isn’t nearly enough breathe for him to sustain consciousness for much longer. Black spots are beginning to appear in his vision, a kaleidoscope of white flashes interspersing with the raven black of the night cloaking them from view. 

As he begins to fade away, Solomons takes the cue to begin pulverizing his limpening frame while holding his deadening weight. 

Even as he hazily starts to lose focus on reality, on the intense predatory expression on Solomons’ face as he pounds his way towards his climax, Tommy is astounded to feel his own blindside him. Opens his mouth to wordlessly scream, only to find himself gasping for oxygen as his lungs incinerate inside the hollow cavity of his chest. 

He had thought once that he was going to die underground, in a tunnel in France where his body would never be recovered. Going this way, under the stars, coated in sweat and strangled by the capable hands of a man he once considered an ally isn’t much better, but at least he’ll lay to rest in English soil, in a grave of his own making.

*

He comes to under the stars, facing stinging, naked as the day he was born on his back on the ground. 

Not sure what hurts worse, his decompressing lungs, his reddened cheek which has just been slapped, or the burn in his eyes when he opens them. 

“Stand down, soldier.” Solomons says from a couple of metres away, safely out of range of any retaliation, a feral animal keeping a wide berth from another. 

The wooden bracelets on his wrist jangle as he finishes straightening his clothes, suspenders hung loose around his backside as he fastens his pants. 

“Finally got the job done, eh?” Tommy mutters. He registers that he’s starting to shiver, whether from the cold or shock at his own recklessness he’s unsure. Pulls on his shirt with uncertain hands, fingers trembling over the buttons. 

“I’ve seen some wonderful, horrific things in my storied lifetime. Quite a sight you made there, blue eyes popping out of your head, coming without me even touching you.” Solomons confesses, a cheeky smile brightening his usual severe countenance, “And the sounds you made? Fucking euphoria if I ever heard it, that.” 

Tommy’s face is wet. When he drags a tired hand over it, he finds the causation for the irritation in his eyes, the fluid milky rather than the clear droplets of water he had been expecting. 

“Caught my second wind while you were passed out, there. It was my hands all wrapped around your neck that did me in; inspired a second wave of admiration, as it were.”

Solomons throws his handkerchief, fluttering to the ground out of reach. The slip of white cloth seems a sullied thin in the muddy ground, the very picture of innocence lost. 

Not breaking eye contact, Tommy drags his clawed fingers through the mess on his face. 

When he brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean, he cannot tell whether Solomons’ expression is disgusted or awestruck. 

“I’ve woken up in worse states.” 

The man above him watches on silently as he drags on his pants, pulls on his shoes and his coat. 

“Smoke?” 

Feeling in his pockets for a light, Tommy notices his weapons have been returned. Wonders briefly if he should ensure Solomons never breathes a word of this to another soul. Sounds ridiculous, even to his own ears. Who would believe that the King of Camden Town ate him out from behind then fucked him senseless, even if he told them?

“I’ll pass.” 

Deeming the transaction to be over, Tommy gets to his feet, refitting his cap to his head. 

Doesn’t expect Solomons to close the distance between them while his hands are still raised. Gets them down but not quickly enough to stop the man jerking his face upward to meet his.

Their tongues tangle violently, delving in with reckless abandon, chasing the bittersweet remnants of their wicked tryst. 

Tommy pulls back first, Solomons releasing his grip on the black shaven locks acquiescently. 

“Always wondered what that tasted like.” Solomons hums, licking his obscenely full lips before whipping them off on the dirty sleeve of his shirt. 

“Alright then.” Tommy replies, slightly dazed. 

As soon as he collects himself, he begins walking in the opposite direction, away from Solomons, the car, the road, all of it. 

“Don’t want a lift?” Solomons calls, perplexing and amusement echoing across the quiet field. 

“Find me own way.” Tommy returns, not turning back. 

“Tonight a good night for flying or something?” Solomons shouts, folding his arms across his chest. He realizes belatedly that Tommy is heading for the paddock, guffawing at himself when he sees him jump the fence. 

“Come off it; gotta be fucking kidding me,” Solomons snorts, disbelieving but unable to look away.

The tall handsome man with the razor cap and the long black jacket walks towards the startled horse just like he did in his bakery that day, all swaggering confidence and no sense of self-preservation.

The horse rears, but he waits patiently, grabbing it roughly by the muzzle when it drops, quieting it with methods Solomons can’t see, but can only imagine; charmed fingers casting their spell, woven with words in one of the tongues he doesn’t have the good fortune to understand. 

Satisfied that the beast will bend to his will, the shadowy figure moves to its side before mounting it, bareback.

With no reins, he winds his hands into the creature’s mane, kicking it sharply in its sides before urging it into a trot. It breaks into a canter, running headlong at the fence. Clears it in a graceful vault, before hitting the ground and disappearing into the night. 

Solomons hums quietly to himself, glancing upwards when a full moon appears from behind a bank of clouds before ambling back to the car.


End file.
